Chicago's Headmistress

By Loretta Giacoletto

Chicago's Headmistress was named a finalists in the 2014 "Soon to be Famous Illinois Author Project."

Step back in time to Prohibition and prostitution during the Roaring Twenties. Follow Giulietta Bracca's notorious rise to wealth and power, from street urchin in 1905 Genoa, Italy, to the headmistress of Night School, Chicago's most popular and innovative men's club in the 1920s. Along the way Giulietta plays a deadly game of one-upmanship with men who use her, abuse her, and fall head-over-heels in love with her. This quick-study seductress soon learns to give as good as she gets, and with few regrets—those so devastating they will haunt her into eternity. But there is one man Giulietta will never forget: the immigrant bootlegger she gave up too soon and will stop at nothing to lure him back, even if it means jeopardizing all she holds dear.
A prequel and partial parallel to Giacoletto’s Italian/American saga, The Family Angel, Chicago’s Headmistress can also stand alone. Every story has more than one side and within a generational saga many stories link and overlap. And as in real life, their endings rarely dissolve into happily ever after. Chicago’s Headmistress is told from the perspective of two of The Family Angel's most intriguing characters. In the words of one of them, Ugo Sapone: "Never did I think I'd find myself involved in forward-thinking education. Never did I think I'd find myself involved in an illegal activity that has given so many people such joy. Yet, here I am, right hand man to Giulietta Bracca."
A must-read for fans of The Family Angel, Family Deceptions, The Godfather, and HBO's Boardwalk Empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marelwood Publishing
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781501445675

Loretta Giacoletto

Loretta Giacoletto was named a finalist in the 2015 and 2014 "Soon to be Famous Illinois Author Project" for her sagas, Family Deceptions and Chicago's Headmistress. She divides her time between Southern Illinois and Missouri's Lake of the Ozarks where she writes fiction, essays, and her blog Loretta on Life while her husband cruises the waters for bass and crappie. Their five children have left the once chaotic nest but occasionally return for her to-die-for ravioli and roasted peppers topped with garlic-laden bagna càuda. An avid traveler, she has visited countries in Europe and Asia but Italy remains her favorite, especially the area from where her family originates: the Piedmont region near the Italian Alps. Her novels are filled with bawdy characters caught up in problems they must suffer the consequences for having created. ITALY TO DIE FOR, from her Savino Sisters Mystery Series, shows how too much togetherness can spell disaster for two thirty-something sisters vacationing in Italy. In LETHAL PLAY a grieving widow is suspected of killing her son's coach, a man with more enemies than friends. FAMILY DECEPTIONS follows two generations of earthy characters who learn to thrive and survive through a series of misdeeds, the worst against those they love the most. FREE DANNER features a cynical young man whose troubled past and deadly encounters hinder his search for the father he has yet to meet. THE FAMILY ANGEL is an Italian/American saga about the an immigrant family of bootleggers, coalminers, winemakers and priests, and a mysterious black angel who enjoys sticking his nose in the family business. The previously mentioned CHICAGO'S HEADMISTRESS, a prequel and partial parallel to THE FAMILY ANGEL, follows a 1905 Italian street urchin's notorious rise to wealth and power as the headmistress of Night School, Prohibition Chicago's most popular and innovative men's club in the 1920s. Loretta is also the author of A COLLECTION OF GIVERS AND TAKERS, twisted stories about the good, the bad, the self-centered and disillusioned In addition to the horror anthologies, Damned in Dixie and Hell in the Heartland, Loretta's short stories have appeared in a number of publications including The MacGuffin, Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, The Scruffy Dog Review, Allegory and Literary Mama, which nominated her story "Tom" for Dzanc's Best of The Web.

Book preview

Loretta Giacoletto

CHICAGO’S HEADMISTRESS

A Prequel and Parallel to a portion of

THE FAMILY ANGEL

Every story has more than one side and within a generational saga such as The Family Angel many stories link and overlap. Two of the most intriguing characters, Giulietta Bracca and Ugo Sapone, now have the opportunity to tell their side in Chicago’s Headmistress, from the early 1900s to the Roaring Twenties to the height of The Great Depression. In the words of Ugo Sapone:

Never did I think I’d find myself involved in forward-thinking education. Never did I think I’d find myself involved in an illegal activity that has given so many people such joy. Yet, here I am, right hand man to Giulietta Bracca.

Follow Giulietta Bracca’s notorious rise to wealth and power, from street urchin in 1905 Genoa, Italy, to the headmistress of Night School, Prohibition Chicago’s most popular and innovative men’s club in the 1920s. Along the way Giulietta plays a deadly game of one-upmanship with men who use her, abuse her, and fall head-over-heels in love with her. She’s wise beyond her years and gives as good if not better than she gets. But there’s one man Giulietta will never forget: the immigrant bootlegger she gave up too soon and will stop at nothing to lure him back, even if it means jeopardizing all she holds dear.

Added Bonus at the end of this novel:

Opening chapters of a generational saga

THE FAMILY ANGEL

(A portion of which is paralleled in

CHICAGO’S HEADMISTRESS)

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1

Genoa, Italy 1905

On the morning of her thirteenth birthday Delila Lobianco cracked open one crusty eyelid and surveyed the only home she’d ever known—a cockroach-infested room shared with the whore Editta, a pathetic wretch who often boasted about the title she once held as Genoa’s Puttanesca Numero Uno. If only Genoa could see its former Numero Uno now, her cleansing routine no better than that of a common alley cat, applying a dollop of spit here, a dollop of spit there. Instead of the usual clothing worn for everyday whoring, Editta, as Delila always thought of her mother, slipped into the only outfit featuring a high neckline and full-length skirt. Editta eased her callused bare feet into scruffy boots that rose midway to meet spindly calves. She propped one foot onto the straight-back chair, leaned forward, and with shaking fingers used a hook to close the buttons on her boot and then repeated the routine on her other foot and boot. Ignoring the cracked mirror hanging lopsided on the wall, Editta plopped her straw hat atop the disheveled pompadour in need of a good shampooing. She opened the rickety door and stepped into the hallway. Delila lowered her eyelid and listened to Editta lock the door. The large key she used would soon weigh down the drawstring bag that held a multitude of useless treasures.

Delila pictured Editta on the same route they’d taken many times, moving quickly from the waterfront, walking uphill, away from the Bay of Genoa and the Old City, through garbage-filled, dark corridors separating row upon row of centuries-old buildings wrought with decay. The tattered hem of her skirt would skim over puddles of open sewage to marry the skirt’s older stains with those more recently acquired; brown rats, some as big as cats, boldly scrounging for food and forcing Editta to hasten her once casual pace. Fourteen years in Genoa’s hellhole still had not dampened the woman’s dreams for the life she kept promising Delila who already towered over her.

And today would be special. Thirteen, Delila’s lucky number—no longer a girl, but not yet a woman. She drifted off to sleep again, only to have a loud knock at the door awaken her. One of Editta’s drunks demanding the whore should help celebrate his winning at scopa.

Editta had taught her well, to never let on she was alone.

Bravo, Delila called out. Editta says to come back later. She’s busy right now.

The man said he couldn’t wait; he needed a woman now, even if it meant taking turns with someone else.  

Later, Delila yelled. You and Editta: all afternoon.

What little she said didn’t matter. When the man’s weight pushed against the door to force it open, she hopped out of bed and sought refuge in the obscure shadows.

Delila recognized the lumbering buffoon, the one who always smelled so bad. When he saw her cowering in a corner, he threw back his head and laughed. She tried to run but he grabbed her arm. He swung back and hit her in the mouth, making it bleed.

Then he said, You, little bitch, will taste better than your old lady ever did.

Delila stumbled toward the door but he blocked her way. Screaming made no sense. No one would have come. He pinned her arms down. She turned her head from one side to the other. His furry, slobbering tongue found her mouth. She smelled his sweat and fermenting wine, gagged from the dried vomit clinging to his clothes. His sour body leaned into hers. When they fell onto the bed, Delila’s soul retreated from her limp body. She willed herself to block out what she could not change, to reserve her energy for when it would count the most. Fortunately, the shit didn’t take long to steal the one thing she and Editta valued above all else. He lifted his chest. Howled like an animal.

***

Editta’s journey took her past two crones perched on their second floor balcony. As usual, they were shrouded in the shabbiest of widows black.

"Buongiorno, Editta, one of them called out. Come join us for our morning latte."

"Grazie, but not today, Editta replied with a wave of her hand. I’m running an important errand."

And running away from everything the two ancients represented. They’d introduced Editta to life on the streets when they were ready to retire and took a portion of her earnings for the next five years. After Delila was born, Editta sometimes brought her to see the women. They’d seemed old then but must’ve passed the half century mark a mere year or two ago. In mourning for themselves, the old crones just didn’t know it yet and Editta didn’t have the heart to tell them. Nor did she want them passing on any of their assorted diseases to her.

Once plump and pretty, Editta had grown so thin her rheumy eyes had taken on a lackluster quality. A persistent cough gurgled in her throat and on occasion erupted into spasms so intense she couldn’t catch her breath. Hollowed cheeks indicated the absence of back teeth, rotted away just like the buildings surrounding her. Black decay marched toward the front of her mouth; racing with the cruelty of time that would soon leave her toothless until God saw fit to take her. But not before she suffered the indignities of purgatory in this world. Like the two diseased ancients, only worse because they seemed oblivious to the living hell they felt no urgency to escape.

Editta turned a sharp corner, bringing her out of the shadows and into the welcoming sunlight that blessed the rest of Genoa. Four more blocks of brisk walking brought her to a busy panetteria where she selected a fresh fig and lemon tart, Delila’s favorite dolce.

Motioning with an exaggerated gesture, she said, Oh yes, and a dozen amaretto cookies.

The baker’s wife responded with a brief nod and filled the order with unusual dispatch, both of the women knowing a wretch such as Editta could turn away respectable business.

After leaving the panetteria, Editta made her way to the street market where she strolled up and down every aisle and stall. No more cheap trinkets for Delila, only the best gold earrings, Editta decided after observing some of Genoa’s finest ladies who shunned her very existence.

Just wait, you fancy, clucking hens, she wanted to tell them. Someday my Delila will put all of you to shame.

Editta would’ve indulged her fantasy longer had it not been for the slight nudge she felt from behind. She held the dolce tightly, her drawstring bag even tighter.

Whore, where the hell you been? asked a man whose grin exposed a gaping hole that once housed his left front tooth. At thirty-two, Maurizio Bracca took pride in his contoured face, a pleasant contrast to the occasional flecks of gray streaking his dark, curly hair. His gaunt body bordered on emaciation but the chances of his dying from violence exceeded those from malnutrition.

Editta presented her sallow cheeks to Maurizio, leaving him no choice but a quick brush of the lips while she whispered in his ear. Today is Delila’s birthday. A pair of gold hoop earrings would bring our daughter a lifetime of happiness.

"Our daughter, please, must we argue this every year, with twenty-four other johns just as likely as me to have fathered her."

A wise woman can make the distinction.

And a wise man is no fool, he said with a wink. As you may recall, I spent a month in jail around the time of her conception.

Must you keep reminding me?

"Must you keep trying to make me into the papa I am not. As for your daughter, has she started working the streets?"

Only as a scavenger but thank you for asking, Editta said. "She is a virgin and will remain so until I find a proper match for her, a wealthy man who will pay handsomely for her to share la dolce vita, the sweet life. Have you seen our Delila lately? She is taller than me."

"As if I care ... although ... I do have just the pair of earrings for your daughter. Since I keep them in my room perhaps we can make a trade."

Editta checked out the morning sun overhead. Time is precious. The trade will have to be quick.

But will it match the value of the earrings?

And then some.

Editta followed Maurizio to his room located over a second-hand shop that depended on his stolen goods to increase its inventory. After an hour-long romp evolving into the boredom of repetition, Maurizio pushed her from his bed.

Out, he said, before those demons dwelling within your mind and body grab hold of mine.

Having had her fill as well, Editta didn’t challenge his remark. What about Delila’s gift? she asked while buttoning her crumpled blouse.

The jar on my dresser, give it a shake.

I earned the earrings?

He grinned. And then some.

***

On returning to her room, Editta found the door unlocked. It’s not like Delila to be so careless, she thought while pushing the door open. As soon as she walked in, the packages slipped from her hands. A gasp deep within her throat erupted into a silent scream. There on the bed lay two bloody bodies, locked together and motionless. Editta made a dash for the stiletto she kept wedged between the mattress and headboard. Gone—but where? This pig was sprawled over her beautiful Delila, every inch of his body covering hers. She grabbed his shoulders, and pulling with all her strength, slipped in a pool of blood as his lifeless body rolled to the floor. Only then did she find her stiletto, lodged in the heart of the bastardo she recognized as Tito, a Portuguese sailor who came around whenever The Helena stopped in Genoa.

Covered with blood but thank god still alive, Delila scrambled from the blood-soaked mattress. She fell into Editta’s arms and began flailing the woman’s consumptive chest.

Where were you, Editta? I hate you ... I hate you.

"Bambina, bambina, forgive me, Editta wailed through a coughing spell. If it takes the rest of my life, I will make this up to you. I swear by all that’s holy."

The one time I needed you ... the one time. He came looking for you, not me. But that didn’t matter. I had to take your place. He ruined me. Now I’ll end up just like you—nothing more than a common whore.

Shut your mouth and keep your voice down, Editta said, lowering her own. You won’t be the first second-hand virgin. There are ways to make sure your future benefactor will never know the difference. Now take off that filthy nightdress and tell me exactly what happened while I draw some water to clean you up.

Delila told her story while sitting in an all-purpose washtub used for their dirty dishes, their dirty laundry, their dirty floors, and their dirty bodies.

... Fortunately, the shit did not take long, she continued with a sob. When he lifted his chest and howled like an animal, I stretched my arm overhead for the stiletto and with all my strength plunged it into his fat chest, just like you showed me. He let out one yell, and then fell on me.

Delila choked back another sob. I couldn’t move, Mama. His heart pumped faster and faster against mine, then slower and slower until it finally stopped. Warm, sticky blood covered me. I couldn’t help myself—I threw up right before you came home.

You were brave, my child. I taught you well.

Having decided to postpone the birthday celebration, Editta covered the trembling Delila with an old blanket and helped her from the tub. Still trembling, Delila curled up in the corner and closed her eyes.

Rest for now, Editta told her. Tonight after dark we’ll get rid of him. For now, I have to clean up this mess.

Out in the hallway Editta hung this hand-written sign on the broken door.

VACANZA CHIUSO

CLOSED FOR VACATION

Tying the door shut with a rope returned Editta’s sense of security, along with the common sense that comes with years on the street. Ever so carefully, she slipped one thumb and forefinger into the pocket of Tito’s trousers and eased out a leather pouch, soiled and fat and stuffed with coins. Her bloodshot eyes grew wider with each coin crossing her palm—more money than she’d seen in her entire life.

Quelling the urge to wake up Delila, Editta sat at the table, tapping her fingers while trying to figure out how to remove all traces of Tito. The body was too heavy for Delila and her to move without help. She’d have to pay dearly for strong arms and a poor memory. Considering the day’s events, Editta thought it best not to leave Delila alone while she went out to make a deal. Instead, she let the child sleep and allowed herself a nap as well.

***

Delila stirred with a shudder felt from the nape of her neck down to her toes and everywhere in between. Her body ached in places only she had touched until this day. She sat up, at first not daring to open her eyes but when she did, the room looked just as it did in the nightmare she’d relived in her sleep. Tito’s body still lay on the floor, his dark blood sending out a stain that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove. She wrapped her thin arms around long, pony-like legs and let her face seek the comfort of her knees, a moment so brief it counted for niente.

Look, Delila, look.

Delila lifted her head. She brushed strands of straw-colored hair away from her eyes. There stood Editta, holding up a leather pouch as if showing off a prized trophy she’d won at Genoa’s annual carnevale.

No wonder the shit wanted to celebrate. What once was his treasury has now become our inheritance.

Our inheritance—if Editta had been working from her room instead of the streets, none of this would’ve happened. Too late now, they might be able to fool that future benefactor but Delila would carry the memory of this today forever. She forced herself to ask, How much?

Patience, my little heiress, I have not counted our fortune as yet. Just think, for us his passing has resulted in an overdue blessing.

Today was a blessing?

In more ways than that one, Editta said, pointing to the body. Meet your first benefactor, dead but still giving, a just punishment if ever there was. With this inheritance and the fresh start it will provide, multiple blessings are sure to follow.

What about him? Delila wrinkled her nose. The mess—

So awful we can’t restore order on our own. I must go out for help.

And leave me alone with him ... no, no, and no. I’d rather kill myself.

Then you go. I’ll count the money and find a safe hiding place.

Chapter 2

Cleaning Up

After Delila put on her clothes, she followed the same route Editta had taken earlier that day. Unsteady legs strengthened with her every step. Not a minute to waste. No time to stop and catch a breath or wave to the old women calling her name. No time to think about the man she’d killed because he deserved to die. Delila stopped at a dilapidated building housing ground-floor junk shops and entered through a side door once painted green. She climbed one flight of stairs and turned left. Taking a well-deserved gulp of air, she tapped a row of fingers on the door.

No answer.

This time she used her knuckles.

Still no answer but Delila did hear the sound of footsteps inside. In a voice barely above a whisper, she pleaded over and over, Maurizio ... Maurizio. Please, Editta needs you.

At last the door opened partway to reveal Maurizio wearing nothing more than a pair of wrinkled trousers. You! How many times must I tell your mama: you and me, we ain’t related.

Delila slumped to the hallway floor, her body shaking with each defined sob.

"Ah, this one’s an actress too. Save your tears for the gullible turista."

Please, Maurizio. Keep your voice down. Mama and me, we’re in the worst kind of trouble.

Come in, come in.

She slipped through the narrow opening, stood eye to eye with him until she turned away.

He grabbed her chin, forced her to face him again. His voice softened on asking, What kind of trouble?

I can’t tell you here. You must see for yourself. Mama said she’d pay.

Editta pay, since when?

Since today, I promise.

He released her chin, spit in one hand, rubbed it with the other. Where have I heard that before?

Never from me, I don’t lie ... not to my friends I don’t.

Do not count me among your friends.

She sucked in a deep breath and forced a single tear down her cheek. Don’t make me beg, please.

He glared at her until she produced another tear, a single sob.

Wait outside while I make myself presentable. And quit that damn whimpering. It’s not like you.

***

Delila brought Maurizio back to the broken door and its pathetic sign.

Editta on vacation, since when? he asked with half a chuckle.

You’ll see, Delila whispered before raising her voice one decibel. Mama, we have company.

The door opened wide enough for Delila and Maurizio to squeeze inside.

One glimpse at the room produced his hurried sign of the cross. Holy Mother and Jesus, dead men I’ve seen before but never this bloody.

Dead is dead, Editta said. And justice, swift. On the street they say you once killed a man.

With my bare hands and a garrote ... some lowlife put his hand where it didn’t belong. I suppose I could’ve cut it off but—

Please, Maurizio. Editta grabbed his arm. You I can trust.

Spare me your trust. Do I look like a common janitor?

I have money. Not much, you understand, but enough if you help us get rid of the body.

He brushed her hand away and edged towards the door.

Editta threw herself at his feet. He tried to rape my baby, but I saved her just in time. She remains as pure as the holy water in San Lorenzo.

As if you ever stepped foot in the Cathedral.

Editta lifted her head. It’s where I saw you picking more than one pocket.

Delila stepped between Maurizio and the door. For the love of God, please help us. I killed him, not Mama. The pig was already dead when she came home—after showing some john a good time.

Maurizio pressed his hands to his ears. "Basta, enough, I’ll help. He pulled Editta up, wagged his finger in her face. But I expect you to pay me well."

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

"In advance, capice?"

Over wine-stained glasses filled with more wine Editta negotiated the fee with Maurizio. Before he had a chance to reconsider her offer, she handed him half of the agreed amount, money already counted out and packaged before Delila had brought him to her.

Let’s get this over with. Maurizio pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He moved to the dead man, bent over, and pulled a knife from one of Tito’s boots. Cut the mattress in pieces, he said, handing the knife to Editta. And stuff the pieces in pillowcases.

She coughed. This may take me a while.

What should I do? Delila asked.

Not a damn thing, Maurizio said.

He rolled Tito’s body back and forth over the bed sheets, wrapping the corpse so tightly it could’ve qualified for a burial at sea. Then he helped the wheezing Editta finish her mattress chore. Together they scrubbed the floor until all traces of blood had disappeared and the room looked as it had before, except for the bundles against the wall and the empty bed frame. At that point Maurizio left, promising to return later with more supplies.

***

Late afternoon found Editta and Delila hunched over their wobbly, paint-chipped table, drinking equal amounts of coffee and latte.

I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat, Delila said.

"You suppose